


The Worth of a Broken Soul

by startraveller776



Series: The Outlaw Queen Incomplete Collection [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, Angel/Human Relationships, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27795346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776/pseuds/startraveller776
Summary: As a Keeper of the Watch, Robin hasn't been a mortal's personal guardian in centuries, but he's been tasked with a special case. Regina Mills is full of hate and anger, her aura so black it's difficult to find any hope left inside of her. Robin is determined to succeed in his assignment, even if it requires unconventional methods, but drawing her closer to Redemption is changing him as well. Will he pay any price for her salvation? For the salvation, too, of the lost souls he's unwittingly collected along the way?(PERPETUALLY INCOMPLETE)
Relationships: Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Robin Hood
Series: The Outlaw Queen Incomplete Collection [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2032210
Comments: 16
Kudos: 12





	1. Prologue: The Task

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** So, I've been dabbling with this for a few months, and I've written and polished 5 chapters. I wasn't planning to post until I finished it. However, for personal reasons, I'm stepping away from OQ, and I figured I might as well post it (with adequate warnings).
> 
> In short: **This story will never be updated; read at your own peril.**

Robin is assigned to her the day of her father’s funeral. The grey skies weep in solidarity with the mourners—a congregation of shadows in dusky garb—as they huddle beneath a small pavilion in a vain attempt to escape the drizzle. She sits by the grave, staring at the coffin with a hollow expression, red-painted lips the only pop of color in the achromatic scene.

She's beautiful— _stunning_ —despite the grief she hides behind a cold, impassive mask. Robin notes this as a simple observation rather than the first blush of attraction. The latter is verboten, and honor has ever been his guiding principle.

“Regina Mills is a special case,” Tink says next to him.

The two stand a few paces off from the others, untouched by the rain. Nothing in this world truly affects their kind. The sodden grass under Robin’s boots, the hazy air curling around him—these hint at his senses, but it’s hardly more than an echo of memory from his centuries-ago mortal life. He is tethered to the Celestial plane now, and only an Appearance, full or partial, can make the things of Earth tactile to him again, albeit temporarily. There is, of course, a way to make the transition permanent, but it’s not an option he will ever entertain.

He studies his crew’s newest charge. Her aura is an angry crimson, so dark that it's nearly black. Not Lost—not yet—but near enough. He can easily guess why Tink is transferring her care to him. His Watch deals exclusively with those souls who are almost completely in the palm of the Dark One’s hand, though they’ve never been given one quite so close to the precipice before.

“I’ll assign her to Little John,” he says. “He does well with those who are past Hearing.”

Tink shakes her head. “It has to be you, Robin.”

Robin glances at the petite Herald, brows raised. “Me?” He hasn’t been a human’s individual custodian for ages, not since he was elevated to Dominion and made a Keeper of the Watch.

Tink nods. “At the Author’s request,” she says.

Robin is again surprised. Since his Ascension over seven centuries ago, he’s never heard of the Author of All Creation condescending to personally appoint a guardian task. He’s been content to delegate the work to His angels. Robin glances at the woman, searching for whatever spark the Author has discovered within her, what it is that makes her a special case, but he can only see that charred fury. 

“He permits all forms of Influence,” Tink goes on.

Robin waits for her to delineate the usual restrictions; he can recite most of them. But when silence stretches between them, he looks at Tink and prods, “All except for—”

“ _All_ forms of Influence, Robin,” she asserts in a soft voice, meeting his gaze. “Nothing is forbidden.”

The implication is breathtaking. He’s never been given complete sanction before. He’s only heard of it happening once or twice in eons, and even then, the stories are more legend than fact. 

Tink places a hand on his arm, kindness etched in her pale features. "Will you accept the task?"

A thread of uncertainty tangles in Robin’s middle, and he glances at the graveside service. Regina Mills curls her lip in a nettled sneer as the priest drones on about the hope of life after death in a dispassionate voice. Her aura has dimmed a half-shade. Is she past Feeling as well as Hearing? If so, his efforts might prove in vain.

No. No, he won’t allow such a fatalistic notion to take root in his thoughts. So long as she draws breath, there is a chance for Redemption, no matter the path that led her to this gloom. He tells his Watch as much whenever they are given a particularly difficult case, and he would be a poor Keeper, indeed, if he shrank from this undertaking.

He blows out a soft breath, dips his head. “I accept.”

Tink smiles, but it is a thin thing—as if she understands the breadth of the challenge he’s been given. "I would have taken her as my charge…" She leaves the rest unsaid. With a finger, she swipes the air in front of her, and a glittering, gilded rune takes shape. "May the Divine Hand guide you, Robin."

“May he write a happy ending for all,” he finishes the farewell.

Tink casts him a final look of sympathy before spreading her luminescent wings and shooting off toward Heaven.

The rune hangs in the air. Every moment of Regina’s life is engraved in the glowing symbol—including annotations from her previous sentinels. Robin reaches for it, but then hesitates. Once he takes this Knowledge into himself, there will be no turning back.

He grasps the rune and presses it into his chest over his heart. The truth of Regina Mills pours into him in a torrent of experiences. Knowledge transforms into Empathy and burns away the last vestiges of his apprehension. When he looks at her again, he sees past the tenebrous shroud she wears like armor to the resilient soul suffocating beneath. The spark is tiny, flickering weakly, but it still burns.

It’s more than enough for him.


	2. The Merry Man

Regina tips her head back against the headrest of her car, fingers curled around the steering wheel. It’s been eleven years today since she buried her father, and she can’t mark the anniversary the way she wants to. Because her life isn’t her own. It never has been. Whenever she tries to carve out something for herself—a semblance of peace if not true happiness, if there even _is_ such a thing—something or someone comes along to snatch it from her. Instead of mourning one of the few people she’s ever loved, she’s too busy watching another slip through her fingers: her son, Henry.

She’s not losing him the same way she lost her late fiance, Daniel, or her father. No, she’s losing Henry’s faith in her, his unconditional loyalty. Lately, he measures her against the heroes he reads about in his favorite comics, and she comes up as the villain every time. It’s true that she’s no bleeding heart ingenue, but what little she can offer him apparently isn’t cutting it anymore.

Especially not when the birth mother he found several months ago turns out to be the embodiment of goodness and hope and lollipops and rainbows. Under these impossible conditions, Regina’s hardly shocked that she’s been slotted into the role of Evil Queen in her son’s fantasy, but it still hurts.

He called her a monster when he found the paperwork that she had yet to file with the court—documents barring his birth mother, Emma Swan, from having any contact with him. The woman gave him up at birth, requested a closed adoption, and _now_ she wants to have a relationship with him? This after Regina endured his colic, changed his diapers, stayed up all night with him each time he was sick? After she’d been the one to march down to the school and make the staff stop turning a blind eye to the bully harassing Henry every day and countless other sacrifices she’s made as a single mother?

“Do you want to know why I want to be around her?” Henry yelled at Regina two hours ago. “Because you’re not a good person, and I don’t want to be anything like you! I hate you!”

_You’re not a good person_. Regina’s heard some version of that insult—usually with more colorful words—her entire adult life, and it’s white noise to her. But when the words came from her son’s mouth, the one person who’s supposed to see the best in her, who’s supposed to believe in her, they were a stab in the gut.

Wordlessly, she packed his things for the weekend and dropped him off at Emma’s tiny apartment.

He’s right. She’s not a good person. Being good means being vulnerable, _weak_ , and Regina Mills is never weak. She’s turned out to be her mother’s daughter after all. The truth sits like poisoned lead in her stomach, but what’s the point in wallowing? It’s not as if she can change who she is. Heaven knows she’s tried. And she’s failed every time.

She glances at the Asian market across the street—at the second story window above the flickering neon sign. Daniel’s old apartment. The last place she remembers being happy. What in the world made her drive here of all places?

_Good riddance._ That’s what her mother had said when they learned of his death at the hands of a drunk driver. Good riddance. As if he’d been nothing more than a phase that Regina went through before moving onto a better prospect: a man with an acceptable pedigree—regardless of whether or not he was a decent human being. According to Cora Millis, love was another weakness.

But it hadn’t felt like a weakness to Regina when she laid in the bed of Daniel’s truck, head on his chest while he pointed out the constellations in the glittering night sky. When the future was full of promise, of _freedom_.

She purses her lips at the memory. What is this, some kind of unconscious need for self-flagellation? If so, she’s had enough. She’s done. She tears her eyes away from that window, letting them fall on a bar that wasn’t here when she used to frequent this neighborhood. The place has one of those old-fashioned wooden signs hanging beneath a striped awning. _The Merry Man_. She snorts at the carving of a jolly fat man holding a pint. It’s ridiculously clichéd, but she needs alcohol. Kitschy or not, it'll have to do.

A biting wind tugs at her as she climbs out of her BMW. She rolls up the collar of her coat and jogs to the sidewalk, glad that it’s after seven. She won’t have to feed the meter. The bar is only one building over, but with the late autumn wind shoving at her, she’s practically an icicle when she finally reaches the doors.

The difference inside is almost jarring—utterly still with a warm, liquidy ambiance. Candlelight, or the electric approximation of it, casts a flickering tawny glow on the booths and tables. Sporadic conversation plays out in muted tones, and the folk music in the background completes a scene that better belongs to a pub in Ireland.

Shrugging out of her coat, she takes a seat at the end of the bar, far from the handful of other patrons. This better not be one of those places where people are looking to make a connection, love or otherwise. She has no interest in cheerful, plastic small talk or in lending her ear to someone else’s sob story.

The bartender’s back is to her as he reaches for a bottle on the top shelf. “Be right with you,” he says without glancing at her.

His British timbre is soft, sandpapery, almost familiar—like the voice of an old, beloved friend, one she hasn’t seen in years. But he’s not. When he turns around, tossing an easy smile in her direction as he grabs a pair of tumblers before making his way over, there’s not a single feature on that attractive face that she recognizes.

And yet…

And yet there’s _something_ about him. Like a wispy, long-forgotten memory.

He’s her age, perhaps older, with a short-cropped beard and blue eyes cracked with faint, spidery lines in the corners. There’s a sprinkle of grey at his temples in his sandy blond hair, and she finds she’s glad that she won’t be dealing with some twenty-something who has an inflated sense of charisma. This man exudes a relaxed confidence as he sets the glasses on the bar across from her and opens the bottle.

Her gaze follows the movement, latching onto the label. Knappogue Castle 16. Her father’s favorite whiskey. She looks up at the bartender, watches him pour out two fingers in each tumbler. He can’t know; of course, he can’t. No, he’s probably filling someone’s request while getting hers in the name of efficiency.

“How are you this evening?” he asks.

She rolls her eyes. That’s a loaded question. “I’ve been better.”

He gives her a sympathetic frown and pushes one of the glasses toward her. He picks up the other one, holding it up. “Here’s hoping your night improves, then.”

She raises a brow. “I don’t remember ordering this.”

One side of his mouth curves upward, pressing a dimple into his cheek. “You didn’t,” he says. “But it’s yours if you want it—on the house.”

She studies him, eyes narrowed. “Feeling presumptuous, are we?”

His grin stretches in full, unveiling another dimple. “No,” he says. “Just good at reading people. I’m Robin, by the way.”

“Robin? Really?” She gives him a flat look, but it’s more a deflection than true disbelief. What _is_ it about him? That sense of déjà vu, but not quite. “Like you’re some heroic outlaw who steals from the rich and gives to the needy?”

He laughs as though the sarcastic remark is funnier than it is. “Very much like, in fact.” He leans his elbows on the bar, and a faint scent of trees and fresh earth wafts toward her. “Although, these days I prefer to aid the downtrodden in other ways.”

She makes a derisive sound. He’s joking, of course. He has to be. Whatever. She came to numb those pesky bleak thoughts, and she’s not going to quibble over what type of hard liquor to do it with.

She picks up her drink and examines the amber liquid before taking a slow pull, letting it roll over her tongue. The familiar flavor, smooth with notes of dark chocolate and white truffles, resurrects evenings in her father’s den. It brings back the watery smile he wore each time he encouraged her to ignore her overbearing mother, to boldly chase her passions, even though he couldn’t seem to make his own escape.

He did eventually. Succumbing to congestive heart failure, he left Regina to navigate this cold, hostile existence alone, and sometimes she hates him for it. Hates him for not having the courage to leave his toxic spouse, for not being able to protect his daughter from the tyrant he married.

But Regina misses him too—so much that she has to swallow at the lump growing in her throat.

“It’s not helping, is it?” Robin says.

She opens her mouth, caustic retort about nosy barkeeps at the tip of her tongue, but it withers when she glances at him. His head is tilted, brows furrowed with concern— _genuine_ concern, as if he actually cares. It’s disconcerting. It’s more disconcerting how a small part of her wants that, to matter to someone without any strings attached. But people aren’t like that. You either use or get used. Her life has taught her that harsh lesson time and again.

Still, she can’t bring herself to chase him off. Not yet. “Oh, it’ll help,” she says, “once I have the rest of the bottle.”

“Or perhaps you might consider talking about it,” he counters.

She gives him a dubious look. “With you?”

He shrugs and takes a nip of his whiskey. “Who better?”

“How about a licensed therapist?” She lets out a brittle laugh, but he’s unfazed. He looks disturbingly like he’d stand there until closing if it means she’ll open up to him. “What about your other customers?”

He gives the hushed establishment a cursory glance. “It appears that no one else needs me.”

She glowers at him. The man is like a dog with a bone. “What makes you think my story’s worth hearing?”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years…” He pauses, giving her a significant look, and she knows that he wants her to fill in the blank with her name.

She sips her drink, makes him wait a beat or two. “Regina.”

He huffs a soft chuckle as if he finds her little game amusing. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, Regina,” he says, “it’s that everyone has a story worth hearing.”

She doesn’t agree. She’s put up with plenty of dull, superficial people throughout her life, but she’ll go along with him for now. “If that’s the case, then what’s the Maharishi of _The Merry Man’s_ story?”

He grins, tongue and teeth grazing across his bottom lip. “All right,” he says, “you tell me what has you feeling less than ‘better,’ and I’ll share something of my own.” There’s a dare written in his steady gaze.

Fine. If he wants to play, then they’ll play. She wonders how long it’ll take before he excuses himself from this conversation; she doubts he’ll be able to keep up. “My son prefers his birth mother over me.” She knocks back the rest of her drink in a single burning gulp.

Robin gives her a grave nod. “I’m mentoring someone who absolutely will not listen to me—”

“That’s hardly a unique problem,” Regina interrupts. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

He holds up a finger. “You didn’t let me finish. My counsel for this particular mentee has been falling on deaf ears for roughly eleven years.”

She snorts. “Sounds like a hopeless cause. Cut your losses and move on.”

He glances at the tumbler in his hand with a laugh that edges toward somber. “It’s not in my nature to give up so easily.” He glances up at her, and the intensity in his pale eyes is unsettling. “I don’t believe anyone is hopeless.”

She brushes away that nagging sense of familiarity. “Then you’re a glutton for punishment.”

“Perhaps,” he agrees. “But would you give up on your son?”

The question anneals the breath in her lungs, slices her through to the core, wiping out her defensive arsenal of scathing comebacks. “No,” she answers truthfully in a whisper.

“Then don’t.” Robin holds her gaze, unfettered compassion written boldly in his features, and it’s too much.

Regina looks away, blinking at the tears stinging her eyes. “I don’t know how to fight this without losing him too.”

He places a warm, calloused hand over hers. “You don’t have to fight,” he murmurs. “You only have to love him. He’ll come around.”

An ache swells in her chest as he gives her fingers a gentle squeeze. The last person to touch her like this, with empathy, with support, was Daniel. She’s forgotten what it feels like, and knowing that she’ll never have that again tugs at an unhealable wound in her chest.

“You can do this,” Robin says, caressing his thumb over her skin. “You’re not alone, Regina.”

Her gaze snaps up to his. She’s heard that before somewhere—those exact words, that same voice. “Have we…met before?”

His brows draw together in an unreadable expression and his hand slides away. “If we had, I imagine it would have been as nice as this has been.” He picks up the bottle. “Another?”

She stares at him, searching for… What? She’s not sure. But she can’t shake the impossible sense that she _does_ know him. “No.” If she stays any longer, he’ll have her confessing all of her secrets. “It’s getting late.” She starts to dig in her purse for her wallet, but he holds up a hand.

“On the house, remember?” He gives her another sober grin. “It’s been a pleasure, Regina. If you’re ever in need of a friend again, you know where to find me.”

He doesn’t wait for her to offer a farewell before grabbing the bottle and empty tumblers. She watches him for another minute before leaving a twenty on the bar and making her exit.

His advice is at the forefront of her thoughts as she drives home. Just love Henry and be patient? She wants to laugh at it. She could have gotten the same generic words of wisdom from a dozen self-help gurus, but it feels like more coming from him—like it might actually work.

She doubts it will, but she’ll give it a try—only so she has proof when she tells the nosy barkeep that he should stop serving his drinks with a side of platitudes.

If she’s smiling at the prospect of seeing him again, that’s why.


	3. New Friends

“He’s just in there.”

Robin stands outside a common room in a facility for abandoned and unwanted children. The term is “group home” this century; “orphanage” fell out of favor long ago. He’s corporeal, has been for over a month. This partial form takes greater finesse than a full Appearance, and it’s simpler to remain in this state during his current assignment. After all, Regina has been far less resistant to his guidance since he’s resorted to this bolder method of Influence.

The stratagem is not without cost, though, but it’s one he’s willing to shoulder for the sake of stoking the Light hidden deep inside of her.

His thoughts are interrupted when his companion speaks again. “I’ve been working with him since I caught him trying to nick a can of lollies at Belle’s bookstore,” the man says, “but it’s hard when I’m just meself. Don’t know who attends him.”

Robin glances at him. Will Scarlet showed up at _The Merry Man_ yesterday and explained that he needed the aid of an Ascended. Apparently he’d been keeping an eye out for one masquerading as a mortal as his prayers weren’t being heard in Heaven. Robin wasn’t surprised, considering Will’s rather insupportable circumstance, but he listened to the man’s plea anyway.

“If you could have a word with his guardian,” Will says, “spell out that I’m an ally not an enemy. That’s all I’m asking.”

Robin nods, taking a step into the room. The interior has a collection of secondhand furniture—couches and overstuffed chairs, cabinets with toys and stacks of books. Except for the shredded paper near one of the televisions, the room is clean, orderly. He finds the guardian first, a Cherub with long, blonde braids. If she were human, she’d be no more than twelve or thirteen.

She kneels by a chair, murmuring to someone hiding behind it—likely her young charge. Robin approaches, pausing time as he does. Everything becomes utterly still, even the glittery flecks of dust in the sunlight streaming through the windows. The Cherub scrambles to her feet, eyes wide as she glances about the room. When her gaze lights on him, she gives him a hasty bow. The disguise he currently wears only works on humans; his full glory cannot be masked to her celestial sight.

“Dominion,” she whispers his title with reverence.

He holds up a hand, offering her a smile. “Please, it’s Robin. I’m only here at the behest of my acquaintance.” He nods at Will frozen at the threshold.

The Cherub looks at Will, then back at Robin, worry written in her youthful features. “He’s a Fallen,” she says in a low voice.

“I know,” Robin replies, equally quiet. “Is this your first Watch…?” He tips his head in an unspoken request for her name.

“Gretel,” she answers. “Roland is my first assignment.” She licks her lips, eyes darting again to Will.

As Robin suspected, she’s aware of the warnings against Descending, but has no experience with the rare few who have made that foolhardy choice. “I don’t know why our friend over there has given up his Glory,” Robin admits, “but I do know that his heart still burns true. I believe you’ve already seen it.”

She gives him a hesitant nod.

“I promise that you needn’t fear him,” Robin says. “He wants to help.”

She stares at him for a protracted beat before finally accepting Robin’s assurances. “Okay.”

He gives her a broad smile, glad he’s been able to help build a bridge between protector and Fallen. “Thank you, Gretel. It’s an important work we’re engaged in.”

This is where his intervention should end—the prayer has been answered—but he finds himself curious about the boy who has inspired a former angel to seek Heaven’s assistance. “Now, I’m not your Keeper,” he says to Gretel, “but will you tell me of your task?”

She replies by sketching a rune in the air, a glistering silver thing, similar to the one that Tink drew for him over a decade ago, but different in its purpose. This rune is not Knowledge, but a brief summary of her time as Roland’s guardian. Robin pinches it between his thumb and forefinger, and it vanishes, replaced by a rapid sequence of memories pertinent to her care of the child.

Oh. So much heartache in such a short life.

“May I?” he asks, pointing in the direction that Roland is surely hiding. As a Dominion, Robin doesn’t need her permission, but he’s found that a good leader honors the stewardships given to others, no matter their rank.

“Yes, but he’s not old enough to be Veiled,” she says. “He’ll see your true form.”

Robin knows this. The things of Heaven cannot be concealed from the pure and innocent. He releases his hold on time, and with quiet footfalls, steps around the chair. Behind it, a young boy sits, face buried in his knees, dark curls flopped forward. Robin kneels before him, sitting back on his heels in order to appear less intimidating.

“Hello, Roland,” he says in a soft voice.

The boy peeks dark brown, red-rimmed eyes out from under a curtain of unruly locks, and they round with awe and fear before squeezing shut. “I’m in big trouble.” The words are muffled, stilted with hiccuping breaths, and Robin’s heart clenches.

“No. No, not at all.” He wants to gather this shattered little one in his arms, but he hasn’t earned the boy’s trust yet. “I’m a friend.”

It’s a beat, then another before Roland lifts his head. He’s small, barely five years old. The shape of his face, the dimples digging into his cheeks when he sucks his lips between his teeth in apprehension—it’s another pang in Robin’s chest. The boy is a near doppelganger of the son he never got to raise.

Robin hasn’t mourned the demise of his life as a human, not in several hundred years, but this little one brings it all back. The last kiss he pressed onto his sleeping boy’s forehead. Marian’s smile as she adjusted the strap of his quiver, her confidence in him and in his men’s ability to pull off a mad gambit to finally unseat the usurper on the throne. They did succeed, but it had cost him his life.

His regret at denying his family a husband and father attenuated when the Author allowed him to see that Marian eventually found a second chance at happiness with a good man, one who raised Robin’s son as his own. In this moment, as he looks at Roland, a tiny bud of desire begins to take shape. Not sentimental what-ifs, but a new, fragile wish—his own second chance, to complete the life that was unceremoniously cut short by a sword in his gut.

But that can never be, so he tramps down the fanciful whim.

“Why do you think you’re in trouble?” he asks the boy.

Roland blinks, teardrops in his thick, black lashes. “I got mad and ripped up Amy’s picture that she drawed for her new mommy and daddy.” He sucks in gulping sob. “Mrs. McKenny says nobody wants a bad boy.” He curls back up behind his legs, body shaking as he weeps.

Robin picks him up then, holds him against his chest. “You’re not a bad boy, Roland,” he says. “Sometimes when we’re hurting, we do things that we don’t mean to.”

“But I _always_ do bad stuff,” Roland says into Robin’s shirt. “I _am_ a bad boy!”

Robin cranes his neck forward to capture Roland’s gaze. “Do you know what I am?”

Roland nods. “An angel.”

“Yes,” Robin says. “Do angels lie?”

Lip quivering, Roland shakes his head.

“You’re right. We don’t.” Robin swipes at the wetness on Roland’s cheek with his thumb. “You are not a bad boy. You are a very sad boy. But you are not alone now. You have Gretel and Will—” he nods to the man who has knelt down next to him, “—and you have me.” Perhaps it's rash to give the child this promise, Robin doesn’t know where his work will take him, but he’ll find a way to make good on it.

Two hours later, he leaves the facility with Will. After Roland calmed, they helped him repair the torn-up drawing with some tape. Games followed, and when the call came for dinner, the boy was in a fit of giggles over Will’s exaggerated accent.

“Thanks, mate,” Will says. “I know you don’t have to help the likes of me.”

Robin slaps a hand on the former angel’s shoulder. “That’s very true,” he says with a grin. He means it as a jest. Turning Will away never crossed his mind. “I’m glad you came to me. Care to have a pint before going off to parts unknown?”

Will begs off. “Another time, maybe. I’m needed back at the bookshop.”

After the two part ways, Robin takes a more scenic route back to the pub. If Regina shows up tonight, it won’t be for another hour or two. Aside from asking Little John to check up on her periodically, Robin’s kept his interactions with Regina limited to when she chooses to seek him out. He may have been privy to every facet of her life until recently, but now the thought of watching over her unseen feels strangely inappropriate.

A man on the corner sits on an overturned plastic crate, weathered guitar case open at his feet as he expertly plucks a tune. The fingers of his left hand are gnarled, heavily scarred, but it doesn’t seem to impede his skill. Robin doesn’t recognize the song, but it’s beautifully forlorn with a tinge of hope. He suspects that the man makes the streets his home, though he’s made a fair attempt at hiding that fact—threadbare clothing clean, boots blackened and brushed despite the deep creases in the leather. Pedestrians hurry by, unaware of the beauty being created in their midst. Robin stops, though, and stands as the rapt audience that this gifted musician deserves.

After the last strains of the man’s song dies out, replaced by the city’s evening bustle and noise, Robin claps. “That was fantastic, mate.”

The musician glances up, brows raised as if he’s surprised anyone has bothered to listen. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

“You’ve got a gift,” Robin says, but the man shrugs off the honest compliment. “I’ve got a pub just two blocks ahead— _The Merry Man_. Would you be interested in providing live music? Paid, of course.”

The man stares mutely at him with disbelief, as if the offer is too good to be true.

Robin won’t try to talk him into accepting. He fishes in his pocket for the bit of cash he carries for encounters like these, and drops a few bills in the box. “The job is yours if you want it. Ask for Robin.”

Before moving on, he casts a quick glance at the figure hovering near the busker, invisible to human eyes—an angel from another Watch who returns his gaze with unspoken gratitude. The guardian shares a familial resemblance to the musician, and while it’s not standard for a deceased sibling or distant relation to guide a mortal, it’s not unusual either. Romantic partners, however, are not given the same latitude.

Robin dismisses another twinge of nostalgia, blames the lapse on the side effects of his extended sojourn in this world.

He pushes the door into the pub, tugging on his scarf and pulling off his coat. He nods to the bartender he hired a couple of weeks ago, a prodigal son who has begun to awaken from the haze of rebellion—but who is still too ashamed to go home and ask forgiveness from his devoted father. Robin has added two other wayward souls to the staff, though none have been entrusted to the angels under his authority. Good is good. That’s all that matters. Besides, it gives him more flexibility with his appointed work.

Robin steps around the bar, hanging coat and scarf on a hook, and August greets him with a smile.

“Hi, Boss,” the man says as he wipes a pint glass dry with a towel. “Your favorite customer is here.”

Robin follows his exaggerated glance to the booth in a darkened corner, and warmth pools in his chest. Regina is early. She sits on the cushioned bench, ignoring her drink—whiskey, always whiskey since that first night—in favor of whatever she’s reading on her phone. Her full lips are pursed with displeasure, and he can guess that the offending text is correspondence from her job. She pushes a lock of raven hair behind her ear, and he involuntarily tracks the movement.

A bottle of Knappogue Castle 16 appears on the bar in front of him, along with a glass.

“That’s the one, right?” August says with a knowing wink.

Robin shakes his head but doesn’t bother disabusing the younger man of his erroneous assumption. He takes the proffered bottle and glass instead and makes his way to Regina.

Her aura, though still rather murky, isn’t quite as oppressive as when he’d first laid eyes on her. He toiled for many years to encourage her to let go of the anger, of the enmity that had swallowed all but a miniscule spark inside of her. He thought he finally gained a foothold as she took on the challenge of motherhood. But when Henry sought out Emma three months ago, that seething darkness clawed at Regina once more, forcing Robin to resort to a more daring approach.

He’s determined not to lose her.

She glances up when he slides into the booth across from her, and her typical glower softens to something that very nearly resembles a smile. He returns it with one of his own, unstopping the bottle and pouring himself a bit of whiskey.

“I’ve made two new friends since we last met,” he says without preamble. “And possibly a third. How about you?” This has been his latest quest—encouraging her to build a solid support system. It’s been an uphill battle, though, rife with hidden mines. Him, she tolerates; she acutely distrusts everyone else.

Regina rolls her eyes. “Yes, you keep harping on me about that.” She takes a sip of her drink. “Are you trying to tell me that it’s time to move on? Find a Prince Charming and let him sweep me off my feet?”

Robin frowns, and he covers it by taking a drink. It’s not that she’s misconstrued his meaning—that’s easily rectified. It’s that he hasn’t given that particular tactic any consideration at all. Romance can often be an unreliable tool for Redemption, but when it isn’t, it’s incredibly powerful. His devotion to Marian had inspired his own transformation from ignoble thief to a man qualified for Ascension. Shouldn’t he be using _every_ available asset at his disposal with Regina?

But then, is her cause truly so dire that he needs to push her toward forming a romantic attachment to someone worthy? He’s made leaps with her in the last month, hasn’t he? There’s no need to be overzealous.

Satisfied that he hasn’t been remiss in his care of Regina, he grins widely. “Is that what you want?” he asks, though he can guess the answer.

She makes a face, scoffs. “Hardly.”

“Then it’s a good thing that I only meant friends of the platonic sort,” he replies, leaning back in the booth. “Have you made any of those lately?”

She exhales a brittle laugh. “Please. You think I have time for slumber parties and girl talk?”

He chuckles. He didn’t fully appreciate her dry sense of humor before when he was little more than a ghost haunting her.

“I only have time for work and Henry,” she goes on. When Robin raises his brows, indicating the one place she neglected to mention, she rolls her eyes and adds, “And here—when I’m willing to put up with an irritatingly talkative bartender in order to get a decent drink.”

He grins at her, knowing she doesn’t actually mind said barkeep. “We should fix that.”

“Oh? So you’re going to stop pestering me with conversation now?” Her mouth curves in a smirk.

“Probably not. I meant that you ought to see more than your office, your home, and the walls of my modest pub.” He screws the lid back on the bottle of whiskey. “Let’s get out of here.”

She narrows her eyes. “And go where?”

“You’ll see.” He stands up, offering her his hand. “Trust me, Regina.”

She looks at his proffered hand for several long seconds. “Okay,” she says slowly. “But I’ve got pepper spray if you try to show me your Red Room of Pain.”

He would have laughed if he wasn’t distracted by the feel of her smooth palm against his. This isn’t the first time they’ve touched, nor even the fifth, in this wholly appropriate manner, but the sensation is still terribly novel. His celestial form is made of finer material, and while everything in Heaven is as tangible to him as this world is to her, it’s different. It’s more a communion of spirit rather than a true physical impression. The solidity of Earth is seductive, and he knows better than to develop a preference for it.

But he doesn’t immediately release her after she’s on her feet. She doesn’t pull away either—not until she notices August staring at the two of them, wearing a smirk.


	4. Ghosts

Regina is already having second thoughts.

She stands outside a diner that looks like it belongs in some coastal town where time stopped about thirty years ago instead of sandwiched between two modern high-rises made of glinting steel and glass. The sun hasn’t peeked over the city skyline yet, and she cradles a thermal mug of coffee in her hands, wondering how she let Robin talk her into meeting him here for a mysterious excursion early on a Saturday morning—with her son, no less.

Robin’s been talking her into a lot of things lately.

First it was escaping the safe confines of the bar, only to descend to the subway. She wrinkled her nose at the faint stench of grease and urine.

“This is supposed to fix my life?” she asked, giving Robin a flat expression.

“Listen,” he said.

At first, all she heard was the rumble of the train, brakes squealing, and the hurried footsteps of travelers rushing the doors. She was about to call him an idiot and head back to the street when something new reached her ears. A single note played from a violin string, simple but somehow layered with aching emotion as it echoed in the cavernous tunnel.

She walked toward the sound as if she were a child following the Pied Piper. Her feet led her to a young woman with spiky green pigtails, dressed in an artfully tattered black dress. The girl’s eyes were closed as she skillfully drew her bow across the strings, weaving a song that made Regina forget her surroundings. She’d attended concerts all over the world, been to the opera more times than she could count, but none of those had close to the depth that this nameless girl poured into her music.

“You see, Regina,” Robin murmured next to her, “even in a shabby place like this, there is still beauty to be found. You only have to look for it.”

She brushed off his nugget of wisdom, called him a Dalai Lama wannabe, but the words have since taken up residence in her head and they won’t get out. In the last few weeks, she’s gotten into the habit of standing at the windows in her corner office at sunset to appreciate the colors smudged across the sky. She can’t walk down the sidewalk without noticing the artist demonstrating her trade at a table splattered with vibrant paint, the hot dog vendor belting out an aria while he slathers a bratwurst with mustard, the giggles of a little girl as a dog licks her face.

It’s annoying.

But then Robin gives her a dimpled grin and a wink, and she’s on another stupid adventure with him. She’s told herself that she’s using him to ease the emptiness when Henry is with Emma, but that’s a lie. This is friendship—

—if friendship includes a little somersault in her middle when Robin turns his searching pale eyes on her or the electricity that crackles under her skin when his fingers brush against her hand.

No, it _has_ to be friendship. To even think of falling for him—or any man, for that matter—feels like betrayal. She won’t trivialize what she had with Daniel by trying to find a pathetic imitation of it. These unwelcome flutters whenever Robin is near just mean that she’s been alone too long, and he happens to be the only attractive man close by whom she doesn’t want to strangle at any given moment.

That's another lie, but she’s clinging to it with a white-knuckled grip.

Henry yawns next to her, but he hasn’t made a single complaint since she woke him up. Things are good between them, maybe even better than they’ve ever been, and she still doesn’t understand how Robin’s advice of _not_ fighting actually worked. At first, Henry was suspicious when she agreed to let him spend time with Emma regularly and when she asked him what they did. He probably thought Regina was fishing for something that she could use to banish the woman from their lives, and truth be told, she was tempted. Instead, she listened as he recounted board games or Marvel movie marathons fueled by pizza and junk food. Regina bit back her disapproval, feeling like she might explode.

But it’s gotten easier. She’s even able to converse with Emma without devolving into cutting accusations. They have a tentative understanding, and Regina almost considers counting that whenever Robin badgers her about making friends.

She can’t begin to guess why he’s so obsessed with the idea.

The man in question walks toward the diner from the opposite direction with some of his employees in tow—as well as a couple of others she doesn’t recognize. When he sees her, his face splits in a wide grin, and a burst of energy zings through her veins.

“Regina, you made it,” he says, stopping before her. His smile gets impossibly broader when his gaze shifts to her son. “You must be Henry. Robin, at your service.” He sticks out a hand to shake.

After taking it, Henry scrunches his features in a thoughtful expression. “Robin like Robin Hood?”

Robin lets out a short burst of laughter. “Your mum asked that very question when we met.” He crouches down to Henry’s level and lowers his voice. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Henry nods, leaning forward in anticipation.

“I am, in fact, him.” He glances up at Regina, gives her a wink as Henry gasps.

She glares at Robin. Great. Henry already has his head in the clouds, and Robin is giving him more fuel for the imaginary world that he lives in.

As usual, Robin is unaffected by the daggers she’s mentally whipping in his direction. He straightens, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “Look at that,” he says to her. “I’ve made another friend. Careful now, you wouldn’t want me to get too far ahead.”

“I wasn’t aware it was a competition,” she returns in a cool tone.

“Oh, it is,” he says with that ridiculous twinkle in his eye. “I’m disappointed that you haven’t put in any effort at all.”

She tries to keep a scowl on her face, but deep down she likes that he can meet her head on without flinching. “Listen, Dime Store Gandhi—”

“Regina? Regina Mills?”

Throat suddenly dry, the rest of her retort dies on her tongue. She hasn’t heard that voice in nearly two decades. She turns around, hoping that she’s having some kind of waking nightmare. But she isn’t. Her past is standing in front of her in the shape of a woman with short, dark hair.

“I can’t believe it!” Mary Margaret Blanchard exclaims, sounding for all the world like she’s _happy_ about this chance encounter—a fact further confirmed when she steps forward and gives Regina a brief, enthusiastic hug. “How long has it been?”

Not long enough, Regina wants to say. They were thrown together by virtue of growing up in the same circles, though Mary Margaret is a couple of years younger. Their history is complicated—to put it mildly. Regina is surprised that Mary Margaret is speaking to her at all.

“Oh my gosh!” Mary Margaret says when she notices Henry. “Who’s this?”

Regina manages to find her voice again. “This is my son, Henry.”

“You have a son? That’s wonderful! Isn’t it wonderful?” Mary Margaret glances at the man standing at her side. Regina recognizes him too. David Nolan. So, the two finally got together. The proverbial prince and princess straight out of fairy tale. David doesn’t seem nearly as pleased to see Regina as his girlfriend is—or is it “wife”? They wear matching rings.

“How do you know my mom?” Henry asks.

Thankfully, before Mary Margaret can answer, the door to the diner swings open. A stout woman appears at the threshold—presumably Granny from _Granny’s Diner._ “Are you just going to mill around my diner all morning, or are you going to get your butts inside to help out?”

Help out with what? Regina twists around to shoot Robin a questioning look. He tips his head toward her with an enigmatic smile and mouths, “Trust me.”

Heaven help her, but she does. Tenuously.

Apparently today’s “Grow Regina’s Grinchy Heart” activity is making two hundred sandwiches for the less fortunate. The tables in the restaurant have been pushed together in a long rectangle. Granny gives instructions, pointing at the bread, the veggies, and so on. After the food is prepared, the group will deliver them to the homeless in the area. Regina’s never given a second thought about those who live on the streets; she’s had too many problems of her own. But Robin seems to have a radar for people in need. When he drags her to some destination or another, they rarely get there without him stopping to have a quick word with someone she would have passed by without a backward glance.

“Everyone deserves to be treated with dignity and respect,” he said when she asked why he bothers, “whether or not that bit of kindness makes a difference in their lives.”

He’s just so… _good_. Nothing like her business colleagues who donate to a charity at a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate function and call themselves saintly, and not like weak-willed pushovers who are nice because they’re desperate for people to like them. Robin doesn’t seem to care what others think. His generosity comes as naturally as breathing to him, and in return, people gravitate toward him as if he’s the promise of sunrise after a dark night.

It’s rubbing off on her. She always believed there were only two avenues to earning the respect of others, demanding it through force or begging for it by pandering, and while she already knew the latter was an exercise in futility, the former is starting to feel wrong too.

On a stupid whim, she actually bought a coffee for her assistant when she was picking up her own yesterday. Ashley’s jaw practically fell to the floor, and then she wouldn’t shut up about how thoughtful it was and how she’d been running late that morning because the baby had kept her up all night and she hadn’t been able to stop by Starbucks and on and on and _on_. Anxious to make the awkward fawning end, Regina told her not to get used to it and stalked into her office.

“All right! Get to it!” Granny says with a clap of her hands.

Mary Margaret plants herself next to Regina on the assembly line. Oh, good. Regina was hoping to spend the next hour rehashing memories better left forgotten. She steels herself for the unpleasant chat that’s surely coming.

Except Mary Margaret spends the time prattling on about what she’s been up to since they last saw each other and incessantly asking Regina prying questions. How old is Henry? Does she love being a mom? Is that cute guy she was talking to outside her husband? No? Boyfriend, then? No again? Huh.

After laying tomatoes and lettuce on the sixtieth sandwich, Regina has had enough of acting like they’re long lost gal pals. “Stop,” she says in the middle of Mary Margaret reminiscing about their school days. “Just stop.”

Mary Margaret frowns. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Regina interrupts, gesturing in exasperation. “This _niceness_.”

“I don’t understand.” Mary Margaret actually looks like she doesn’t.

Regina stares incredulously at the other woman. “Do I really have to spell it out for you, dear?” she says, the words as sharp as a razorblade. “I made your life miserable. I did a hostile takeover of your father’s business that left him in ruins and wiped out your inheritance. So you can stop pretending like we gave each other heart-shaped best friend charms.” That’s not everything—Regina is not the only culpable party here—but that should force Mary Margaret to shake off this facade of congeniality.

Mary Margaret’s expression softens. “Is that what you think? That I should hate you?” she asks. “Regina, you know I’m the one who tattled about your relationship with Daniel after I saw the two of you at the stables. I was trying to get back at you for always snubbing me, but that’s no excuse.”

She sucks in a deep breath before continuing, “What your mom did to you…” She trails off, glancing away. “That deal she made with my father… I just… I understand why you did what you did.” She looks up at Regina with brows furrowed in sadness. “I’m so sorry for what they put you through. I’m so sorry for Daniel. I forgave you a long time ago. I hope you’ll be able to forgive me.”

Regina desperately searches Mary Margaret’s face for a hint of duplicity. This has to be fake. This has to be a part of some vengeance scheme. But she finds only naked regret in Mary Margaret’s eyes—and hope.

Regina steps back, blinking at the wetness threatening to spill onto her cheeks. The armor of rage and hate and justification she's built around her fractured heart is starting to fall apart. She retreats another step when Mary Margaret reaches for her. “I can’t do this.” The words come out hoarse, cracked at the edges, and she despises that vulnerability. She clears her throat. “I need some air.”

She rushes out of the diner through the kitchen and out the back entrance. Years of pain that she’s never allowed herself to feel lances through her, crushes her ribs in a vise. She presses her palms into her stomach in a futile effort to stave off the worst of it, but it comes and _comes_. She can’t breathe. She _can’t_ —

Strong arms wrap around her, and she’s enveloped by the familiar, comforting scent of springtime in the forest. Robin murmurs her name, pulls her close, cradling her as the tears finally fall. He doesn’t say a word as her world crumples like a house of cards, only holds her tight against the deluge.

They stay like this in the alleyway until there’s nothing left inside of her, until her eyes are dry and gritty. She lingers in his embrace for a heartbeat longer before releasing her grip on the back of his shirt and backing away from him. He doesn’t let her go far, though. His hands rest on her shoulders, and he looks her over with concern.

“What can I do?” he asks.

She shakes her head, unable to string words together.

He slides a calloused palm up to cup her jaw. “Let me help, Regina.”

She reaches up, curls her fingers around his wrists, and gently pushes him away. She doesn’t deserve the compassion bleeding through his gaze. He doesn’t know what kind of person she really is, the person she’s always been. “You can’t help.”

He captures her hand before she can put more distance between them. “Yes, I can.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but there’s something inexplicable in the piercing look he’s giving her. Like he won’t be frightened off if she peeled back her layers and showed him all the blackened, broken ugliness inside. Like he’s already seen into her soul.

She’s so tired all of a sudden. Tired of having to be strong every waking moment in order to protect herself. Tired of hearing her mother’s voice in her head. Tired of being afraid.

“You wanted to hear my story?” She lets out a thready breath. “Here it is.”

She tells him the Reader’s Digest version, but she doesn’t edit out the constant strain of living under her socialite mother’s brutal rule or the coldness she inherited from her. She briefly touches on falling for the young man who cared for her horse, how for a moment it seemed like love was real and marriage wasn’t just a business transaction.

Then Mary Margaret caught the two of them at the stables, and Regina’s secret was out. Cora Mills virtually held her prisoner, determined to keep them separated so Regina could come to her senses. Daniel was killed on his way to rescue her. That was the end of a different— _better_ —future.

Regina blamed Mary Margaret. She still does, but her hatred feels strangely fangless now. Holding onto it all this time hasn’t brought Daniel back. It hasn’t given Regina any peace or resolution or closure.

It never will, will it?

Robin is silent as she summarizes the pinnacle of her mother’s scheming: marrying off her daughter to a widower worth more than a billion dollars. Mary Margaret’s father. When Regina learned that he’d tacitly agreed to the “merger,” she slashed free from Cora’s puppet strings and spent the next several years systematically dismantling Leopold Blanchard’s empire.

That’s turning out to be a hollow victory too.

But who she is without all of this? Who does she become if she forgives, if she moves on? She doesn’t realize that she’s posed the question aloud until Robin answers her.

“You are whomever you choose to be, Regina,” he says with unwavering conviction. “No one and nothing else gets to decide that for you, not even your past.”

She gives him a wry look. “And it’s as easy as that?”

“Oh, it isn’t.” He takes her hands in both of his, gives them a gentle squeeze. “I was once a very different man. I can say from experience that changing is a difficult path, but it’s worth it.”

How does he do that? How does he make her believe? “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Well, you _could_ begin with a little goodwill.” He nods toward the diner, and she’s not sure whether he means Mary Margaret or making sandwiches. “Come on. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

Regina glances at the building, stomach twisting, and she blows out a heavy sigh. “Okay, bartender.” She pulls out of his grip and squares her shoulders. “Let’s get this over with.”

She expects that all eyes will be on her and Robin when they come back inside, but everyone is too busy with clean-up—wiping down the tables and pushing them back into place, stacking cellophane-wrapped sandwiches in plastic crates, sweeping the floor—and _singing_. Wonderful. She’s in a Disney movie now.

Henry’s grinning from ear to ear, though, crossing broom handles with David in a mock sword fight. Robin grabs a nearby mop and comes to her son’s aid. “We’ve got you now, blaggard!”

Warmth swells around her heart as she watches the playful duel, but the feeling is bittersweet. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen Henry so happy, so carefree. Whatever that says about her parenting thus far, she’s not liking it.

“He’s a great kid.”

Regina shifts uncomfortably at Mary Margaret’s presence. “Yes, he is.” She tenses, waiting for the continuation of their earlier encounter, but it doesn’t come.

“David and I are expecting,” Mary Margaret says. “We’re excited—and nervous.”

Regina doesn’t know what to say; her experience with casual conversation is severely limited. By choice. If someone dares to engage her in friendly chit-chat, she typically makes an acerbic remark to shut it down. She’s tempted to do the same now, but at that moment, Robin looks over and tips his head in a slight nod.

Fine. Goodwill, it is.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine.” She glances at Mary Margaret. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

Granny saves her again by announcing that it’s time to distribute the food. The volunteers are divided into several small teams, and she and Henry are grouped with Robin and Captain Guyliner, the bar’s musician—one of the many strays Robin’s adopted since she’s known him. Regina’s relief at not being stuck with Princess Sunshine is short lived, though. Mary Margaret won’t let them go their separate ways without the promise that she and Henry will come over for dinner sometime the next week. Henry’s so excited that Regina’s forced to accept.

As everyone leaves the diner carrying crates, Robin nudges Regina with his shoulder. “It appears you’ve made a friend,” he says with a cheeky grin. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

She arches a brow. “What makes you think we won’t be at each other’s throats before dessert?”

He casts a glance over his shoulder at Mary Margaret and turns back to Regina with a shrug. “She doesn’t seem the type.”

It’s an effort to swallow back the laughter bubbling up, and she can’t quite keep the smile from her face. “So long as you remember that I am.”

His grin stretches wide, teeth grazing across his bottom lip, and she ignores the tiny flutter in her middle. “I wouldn’t dream of forgetting.” He gestures vaguely down the street. “Shall we, then?”

“After you.”


	5. Snakes, Snails, and Puppy Dog Tails

Robin sits on a park bench, enjoying a clear afternoon. It’s not spring yet, but today’s weather is a preview of it. Grass, blanched by the cold of the last few months, shows hints of new life. The tall row of trees surrounding the grounds mute the cacophony of the city beyond. A few paces off, children laugh and scream with delight at a playground. It’s not quite as serene as Sherwood Forest was long ago, nor is it anywhere close to the rapture of Heaven, but this has its own charms.

Charms that are too easy to grow attached to if he’s not careful.

Will plops down beside him, bagel in hand slathered with cream cheese and chives. Robin abstains from the bite he offers, and instead closes his eyes, soaking in the warmth of the late winter sun. As Will wordlessly finishes his lunch, Robin marvels at the path that led him to becoming friends with a Fallen. He still doesn’t know what made the other angel forsake his Watch. He hasn’t asked, and Will hasn’t been keen on sharing.

“Aurora texted,” Will says. “She’s running behind.”

Robin nods, not bothering to open his eyes. Her tardiness is nothing new, and he doesn’t mind it. Immortality has culled out any sense of urgency in him—except when it comes to Regina. Although, that’s not truly the case anymore. Not since her breakthrough at _Granny’s_ several weeks ago. That pivotal moment cracked her ever-present black aura, and frail tendrils of radiance have begun to peek through the fissures. His task has become less about encouraging her to accept the light within and more about teaching her how to stoke the flame.

“It’s dangerous, what you’re doing,” Will says, voice uncharacteristically somber. “Even for a Dominion.”

Robin glances at his friend. “What? Associating with the likes of you?” He keeps his tone light, but he knows what Will’s referring to, and it’s not a conversation he’s interested in having today—or ever, if he’s being honest.

Will wags a finger at him. “Make your jokes, but I won’t wipe your tears when you find yourself stuck in this world, mate. Just saying.”

Robin sobers with a heavy sigh. “I know,” he says. “I won’t be here much longer.” 

Regina’s on the right path and she has a growing circle of friends: Mary Margaret and her husband, David, Granny and the regular volunteers at the Lunch Bunch charity, and possibly even Emma, by the way Regina’s been talking about Henry’s birth mother lately. Robin’s hands-on intervention won’t be necessary soon enough.

He wishes the thought made him happier than it does.

Will gives him a sidelong look. “It’s not just her, you know. It’s all of us—the lost souls you’ve collected. It’s _The Merry Man_ and the haven you’ve made of it,” he says, shaking his head. “You think you can leave it all behind just like that?” He snaps his fingers.

The question chaffes at Robin. Of course he’s considered all of this. Once he’s certain Regina’s trajectory is set, he’ll start to reduce his contact with her, wean her from her dependence on his physical presence. The pub will go to Killian; August is nearly ready to go home and make amends with his father. And Roland—

“Robin!”

Joy instantly blossoms in Robin’s heart at the sound of his little friend’s voice. He rises from the bench, squats down with open arms as Roland barrels toward him. Robin catches the boy, swings him around before settling him on his hip.

“How are you today?” he asks.

“I couldn’t find my shoes!” Roland says, mouth twisted in a frown.

“It’s why we’re late,” Aurora explains. 

The young woman, along with her husband, Phillip, have been Roland’s temporary foster parents for more than a month. The two are close with Will and his friend, Belle. With some trepidation, and loads of pleading from Will, they decided to take the leap. Robin hopes it will eventually lead to adoption; Roland deserves to have a loving family.

“Well, late or not,” Robin says to the boy, “I’m glad you’re here.” He chooses not to acknowledge the “I’m telling you” expression that Will tosses in his direction.

“Robin, can we talk for a second?” Aurora’s gaze flits to Roland, and Robin gets the sense that she prefers that other ears aren’t privy to the discussion.

“Of course.” He glances at Mulan, Aurora’s guardian who hovers nearby, and the angel’s lips are a thin line. This doesn’t bode well. He looks down at the young one in his arms. “Why don’t you take Will to the playground, and I’ll be along in a minute.”

Roland’s features pinch in displeasure, but he doesn’t protest. “O _kay_.” He wriggles to the ground and grabs Will’s hand. “This time don’t push me too high on the swings!”

“Now that’s not fair!” Will argues as they walk away. “You said you wanted to fly into space. I was only doing what you wanted!”

Robin grins, watching the pair take playful jabs at each other until they’re out of earshot. He turns back to Aurora, bracing himself for a grave conversation. “I take it you have some unpleasant news.”

Her head dips and her brows furrow. “There are a few things, actually,” she says. “Phillip’s mother isn’t doing too well. It looks like we have to move her in with us.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Robin replies with sincerity. Not long ago, Phillip’s mother was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s. 

“Thank you.” Aurora glances away, sucking in a deep breath before she meets his gaze again. “I’m pregnant. I just found out, and I have my first appointment with the doctor today.”

Robin opens his mouth to offer his congratulations, but the words feel at odds with the fear she’s trying so hard to mask. He can imagine that under less strained circumstances, she would be thrilled to make such a happy announcement, but with her mother-in-law’s condition and a foster child who is still a bit on the feral side, this pregnancy is clearly adding to the already heavy weight she bears.

“That’s quite a lot you’re dealing with,” he says.

“It is.” Tears swell in her large eyes, and she wipes at them with the back of her hand. “I just… I don’t think we can juggle it all, not right now. We don’t want to be those cold-hearted people who send a foster kid back into the system because it turned out to be harder than we expected, but…” The anguish in her face conveys what she leaves unsaid.

Robin’s heart sinks, both in sorrow for Roland and in sympathy for Aurora’s plight.

“I thought, maybe—” She cuts off, bites her lip before going on. “Can’t he stay with you? I mean, that’s where he really wants to be. He talks about you non-stop. Sometimes it’s the only way I can get him to do what he’s supposed to—by asking him what you would think if you knew he was misbehaving. He loves you so much, and I see the way you are with him whenever you visit.”

Her words are an arrow in Robin’s chest. She isn’t wrong; he adores Roland, far more than he ought to. For a tremulous heartbeat, he very nearly gives the idea serious consideration. He had loved fatherhood for those brief few years so long ago, and to be presented with the opportunity once more?

But that would require him to Fall, Heaven’s gates forever barred to him. Will’s warning rings like alarm bells in his head, and with effort, Robin quells yet again that ever present, thready desire for another chance at mortality.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he says to Aurora. “But I’ll see what I can do to help. At least let me keep him this afternoon so you can rest. I’ll bring him home at dinnertime.”

His words do little to ease her disappointment, but she nods. “Thank you.” She bids him farewell, and Mulan tips her chin up at him in a brief show of gratitude before the pair take their leave.

Once alone, Robin blows out a heavy sigh, shoulders sagging. That was the opposite of what he’d been hoping for, but he can’t blame Aurora and Phillip. The choice they’ve had to make is impossible. But oh, poor Roland. Surely the Author has a better story for the boy than being passed from home to home. Yes, hardship can provide an opportunity for incomparable personal growth—some of the very best humans rise up from the ashes of great tribulation—but it can also have the reverse effect.

 _All right, Robin. That’s enough doom and gloom._

He takes a steadying breath, straightens his posture. Hopelessness isn’t the language of angels, but keeping a firm rein on his emotions while tied to Earth is becoming a challenge. Happiness, enthusiasm, anger, discouragement, fear, sadness—here, these are more than simply feelings. They’re amplified by a quickened pulse, a chill pebbling his near-mortal skin with gooseflesh, or a surge of heat thrumming in his veins. They’re woven in the tension between his shoulder blades, in a swelling in his chest. Even months in this quasi-human state haven’t fully acclimated—or _re_ acclimated—him to this symbiotic connection between soul and body. He’s still blindsided from time to time by an unexpectedly powerful emotion—like his affinity for Roland.

Like his devotion to Regina.

He tells himself the latter is because of his assignment, because of the Knowledge he’s been entrusted with. How can one witness her incredible resiliency, her strength in overcoming and _not_ hold her in high regard? That his feelings seem to run unusually deep is merely an affectation of this physical form.

A familiar squeal reaches his ears from the playground. He glances that way to search for his little friend, and finds Gretel standing nearby. The Cherub stares at him, head tilted as if he is a puzzle she intends to solve.

“I don’t understand,” she says. “You’re different.” Her eyes drop to the ground as if she’s worried that she’s offended him.

Different? He frowns. “How do you mean?”

“From the others.” She furrows her brows, gaze still pointed downward. “We aren’t supposed to _linger_.”

Ah. She means his extended Appearance. Robin bends forward, catches her gaze. “You’re right, but I have been given a very special task.” It’s the absolute truth, but the words taste a hint sour—as if the honesty of them has begun to curl and crack in the corners. But no, that’s only Will’s admonition still coloring his thoughts. Isn’t it?

“Does it hurt?” Gretel asks. “To stay?”

He smiles at her innocence. She’s not an Ascended like him, not a former human invited into the ranks of the guardians, but an angel by lineage—a Legacy. She doesn’t understand how very loaded her questions are. “It can be difficult.”

Apparently it’s enough to mollify her curiosity as she gives him a nod. 

Roland comes running from the playground, Will following close behind. “Robin!” the boy calls. “You said you would come play with me!” His mouth forms a charming pout.

“Yeah, Robin,” Will agrees, though he sounds considerably more winded. He plants his hands on his knees. “It’s your turn, mate. Unlike you lot, I haven’t got unlimited energy.” He tousles Roland’s hair.

The boy ducks out from under his ministrations with an indignant growl and takes a swipe at Will. The man jumps back before his little fist can make contact.

“Roland,” Robin warns.

The boy’s shoulders sag and he huffs a dramatic sigh. “Sorry, Will.”

Robin crouches down to Roland’s level. “It’s okay to protect yourself,” he explains. “But we try with our words first.”

“Is that how you handled the good ol’ Sheriff of Nottingham? With words?” Will interjects unhelpfully. He shrugs when Robin glowers at him. “What? I’ve read up on ya.”

Robin shakes his head. “I did, in fact, try words first.” Albeit angry words, but then, he’d been rather new to living honorably at the time.

Roland impatiently tugs on Robin’s hand. “Come on! You promised!”

“Go on, _Papa_ Robin,” Will says with a cheeky wink. “I’ll just sit here a minute and keep Gretel company.” He makes a gesture nowhere close to where the angel is.

Roland snickers. “She’s over there.” He points to Robin’s left.

“Oi! Be nice!” Will makes a face at their little companion as he settles onto the bench. “I can’t see her, can I? I knew she was around here somewhere.”

Roland giggles again. “You’re weird.”

Will puffs out his chest. “That’s right. I am, and I’m not sorry for it. Now go wear out Robin. I’ve got to examine the inside of me eyelids for a bit.” He leans back, folds his arms, and shuts his eyes.

Robin laughs as Roland drags him to the playground.

Five minutes later, Robin is stomping around the swingset and monkey bars, roaring and gnashing his teeth as an ogre. Roland and a few other children line up, drawing back on imaginary bowstrings and letting loose a half dozen invisible arrows.

“Pow!” Roland yells.

Robin pretends to be struck, making pathetic monster noises before crumpling to the sandy ground and dying a slow, theatrical death. The children swarm him while he’s down, and when they’re confident that they’ve got him, he “resurrects” himself with a loud bellow. They scramble back with screams and laughter, and he chases after them.

This? This is _bliss_ , and he’s having a hard time recalling if there’s anything in Heaven that can rival it. He banishes the thought as soon as it enters his mind. It’s perilously close to blasphemy.

Roland wants to play the ogre next, and Robin takes on the role of terrified victim; the others take turns leading the charge to defeat the “beast.” Caregivers and parents seem content to let him lead their children in the game he once taught his own son centuries ago—though a few do keep a close watch. Good.

These regular playdates he and Will have had with Roland seem to have done much in the way of lifting the boy’s spirits. However, there’s a pang in Robin’s chest as he remembers that his little friend’s life is going to be upended yet again. Perhaps he’ll be able to stay long enough to see the boy placed with the right parents.

 _Ogres and Archers_ eventually comes to an end when most of the other children are called away. Roland raises his hands in an unspoken request to be picked up, and Robin is happy to oblige him.

“I’m hungry,” Roland says, laying his head on Robin’s shoulder. He points to a vendor not far from the playground. “I want some ice cream— _pleeeeaaase_.”

Robin shakes his head with a breathy chuckle. He supposes he should count it progress that Roland remembered to say “the magic word” without prompting. But ice cream before he returns the spirited boy back to the care of his foster parents?

“Pretty, pretty please?” Roland pleads. “I promise I’ll be good.”

Robin looks down at those large, hopeful eyes, and against his better judgment, he relents. “You’ll be good for Miss Aurora and Mister Phillip.”

Roland’s face lights up, dimples digging deep into his cheeks. “I will!”

“Shall we ask Will to join us?” Robin nods toward the other man snoozing on the bench with his chin to his chest.

“Yeah!” Roland agrees enthusiastically. As much as he sasses Will, the two share a unique bond—almost as if they were brothers, despite the age difference. “Can we fly to him?”

“Fly?” Robin wonders what inspired that odd request.

“With your wings,” Roland says as though Robin should have already known. “How come you never fly?”

Robin exhales another soft laugh. “Because my wings are not in this world.” 

Roland glances behind Robin and then back at him, brows raised as though he finds the answer dubious. 

“Yes, I know you can see them, but they are…” Robin trails off, searching for an explanation that will satisfy a five-year-old. “They’re like Gretel. Here, but not.”

“Oh.” Roland frowns, looking terribly serious. “Can you make them come here?”

“Only on very, very special occasions.”

“No flying, then?”

“No flying.” Robin expects to feel as disappointed by that as his little friend seems to be. Soaring is one of the many perks he’s enjoyed since his Ascension, but until this moment, he hasn’t thought of it at all.

When they’re within arm’s reach of Will, Roland leans forward and pats the other man’s cheeks while shouting, “Wake up! We’re getting ice cream!”

Will jerks alert, pushing Roland’s hands away. “Oi! What’re you on about?” he asks in a gravelly voice. “I was having a nice dream.”

“Did it have ice cream in it?” Roland counters.

“No.”

“Then it wasn’t a nice dream.” Roland sticks out his tongue before chanting, “Nice dreams have ice cream! Nice dreams have ice cream!”

Will narrows his eyes. “Now you’ve gone and done it!” He leaps from the bench, tickles Roland, and Robin gives up trying to keep a hold on the giggling, squirming boy.

“Betcha can’t catch me!” Roland goads as soon as his little feet hit the ground. He shoots off, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that Will is giving chase.

Robin jogs after the pair, grinning when Will grabs the boy and flips him upside down, threatening to string him up by his toes. Roland begs to be rescued through gales of laughter. Robin catches them, snatches Roland from the dastardly fallen angel, and they race toward the cart together.

Bliss, indeed.

Robin stops short of plowing into the group near the vendor, and Roland pumps a fist in the air, loudly declaring victory over Will. Robin throws his free hand up in solidarity, shouting hurrahs while dancing in a circle.

Will tries to glare at the pair, but his lips betray him by twitching upward. “Pride cometh before the fall, Robin.”

“Better than being a sore loser,” Robin quips. He opens his mouth to make another teasing remark, but he’s interrupted by a familiar, rasping alto that warms his insides.

“Robin?”

His face splits into a wide grin as he searches for Regina. He murmurs her name when he finds her standing nearby with Mary Margaret and Henry. She’s more stunning every time he sees her, her aura glowing brighter in small but noticeable increments. He gives into the impulse to close the distance between them and pulls her into a one-armed embrace. She smells of lilacs and lemongrass as he holds her for a breath, then another—until Roland makes a noise of complaint.

Robin steps back, refusing to acknowledge the reluctance that tugs at him as he does. He tells himself that he's still a little dazzled by the act of physical touch, though the quick hug he gives Mary Margaret doesn't inspire that same itch to linger—nor does the handshake he shares with Henry.

“This is a happy surprise.” Robin nods to Will who has joined him. “Will, you remember Regina, Henry, and Mary Margaret.”

Will gives Robin a brief meaningful look before turning to the others. “Lunch Bunch, yeah?”

Mary Margaret smiles at the little one on Robin’s hip. “And who’s this?” 

“This is my friend, Roland,” Robin says. He glances at Henry, gives the boy a wink. “Merry Men come in all shapes and sizes, don’t they, Henry?”

“Yep.” Henry puffs out his chest with pride.

Robin doesn’t miss the way Regina rolls her eyes, and he bites back a laugh. “Roland, would you like to say ‘hello’ to everyone?”

The boy, suddenly shy, gives the others a small wave, but he keeps his face half-burrowed into Robin’s chest.

“I don’t know about all of you,” Mary Margaret says, placing a hand on the modest bump in her stomach, “but I need some ice cream.”

That perks Roland up. “Me too!”

“Well,” Mary Margaret replies, “we’d better get in line, then. You want some, Henry? My treat.”

“Can I, Mom?” 

Regina huffs a long-suffering sigh before answering, “Fine.”

“Yes!”

In short order, Mary Margaret is leading the boys to the end of the line. Will looks between Robin and Regina before announcing, “Right. I suppose I’ll be getting me own ice cream, then.” He hesitates a moment, but when neither of them protest as he seems to expect them to, he throws his hands up in the air, grumbling under his breath as he stomps off to join the others.

Regina snorts. “Another one of your Merry Men, Robin Hood?”

Robin raises his brows. He hasn’t considered it before, but— “So, it would seem.” He sets an ambling pace to follow the group, and she stays behind with him. “Here’s a tidbit for you: ‘Hood’ isn’t actually my surname—at least, not from birth.”

“Oh, it isn’t?” She gives him that sardonic look she favors when she thinks she’s humoring him.

“I’m afraid not.” He rather likes this, their banter—the ease of it as if they’ve been acquainted with one another for a lifetime rather than a few short months. “Surnames hadn’t really caught on yet. Most people distinguished themselves by where they lived or what they did. Thomas the blacksmith. Mabel the innkeeper’s daughter.” He pauses to offer her a small, flourishing bow. “Robin of Locksley, at your service.” He’s rewarded with another eyeroll, though this one is accompanied with a laugh.

“You don’t quit, do you?” she says.

He gives her a winning smile. “Never, milady.”

There’s no law in Heaven barring him from revealing who he once was, particularly when she won’t believe a single word he says. He knows everything about her, and he finds it hard not to give her something of himself in return—his _true_ self, not merely the bartender she thinks she met by happenstance. Because she’s become as much his friend as he is hers.

A friend he doesn’t get to keep.

“Got up to any good deeds today?” he asks to distract himself from the morose path his thoughts have begun to wander down.

She makes a derisive sound. “This might shock you, but not all of us have time to play bow-and-arrow-wielding Good Samaritans.”

“I beg to differ. A bit of kindness takes no time at all and goes a surprisingly long way,” he replies. “But if you’re worried about archery, I can help with that.”

She stops in her tracks, huffs an incredulous laugh. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m quite a good shot, actually.” He grins at her canted brow, and unable to resist, adds, “Some might even call it ‘legendary.’”

She shakes her head with an exaggerated groan, but her dark eyes glitter with unfettered mirth. That softness is a lovely sight, though he knows she only gives these glimpses to those closest to her. He treasures each one she shares with him.

_It’s dangerous._

“Robin! Robin! Robin!”

He takes an unconscious step back—when had they gotten so close?—and turns to receive little Roland. The boy recklessly leaps up into Robin’s arms, nearly losing his coveted ice cream in the process.

“Look!” Roland exclaims, waving his treat before Robin’s face. “That lady gotted me _two_ scoops!”

“Did she, now?” Robin asks the same time Regina says, “What can you expect from a princess?”

Roland’s eyes grow round. “Really? Like Snow White?”

Regina’s mouth stretches in a wide smile, nose scrunching with a smidgeon of mischief. “Now that you mention it,” she says, “I think that’s exactly who she is. It makes sense. You _are_ friends with Robin Hood.” She taps Roland’s belly and then winks at Robin.

He can’t help but grin back at her.

The boy is positively awed. “Who are you?”

Regina hesitates for a heartbeat before tipping her chin up imperiously. “Me? Why, I’m the Evil Queen.”

Robin clears his throat loudly. “I beg your pardon, milady,” he says with mock severity, “but I think you mean _reformed_ Evil Queen.”

She flashes a smirk at him. “Depends on the day.” And then her attention is back to Roland. “So, you’d better be good, or else.” She crooks her fingers with a comical snarl, and Roland giggles.

This woman is a wonder, and Robin couldn’t be prouder of her than in this moment—of how far she’s come. He’s tempted to stop time, to savor the glow that radiates from her as she shares another laugh with Roland.

She’s _beautiful_.

The revelation hits him like a bolt of lightning straight to his chest, bones and sinew crackling with sudden energy. He—

No. _No._

What he feels is another manifestation of the physical body. Of course he cares for her, but he can’t allow himself to be misled into believing it’s more than that by virtue of a stuttering pulse and the spark singing in his veins. With effort, he folds the misplaced and unduly amplified emotion away. He only needs to bear this burden a little while longer—just until Roland has a home. Just until Regina is securely on the path of Light.

Robin sucks in a breath. “It’s time to get this one back home.” Roland starts to protest, but Robin quiets him with a look. “You made a promise, remember?”

Roland slumps against Robin’s shoulder, likely smearing the bit of ice cream on his cheeks onto Robin’s coat. “Yeah, but I don’t wanna go yet. I wanna stay with Will and Henry and ‘Gina and Snow White,” he says. “I wanna stay with _you_.”

Robin’s stomach sinks at the innocent confession. How he wishes he could grant that request. “I know,” he murmurs. “But we’ll see each other again soon.”

“But what about ‘Gina?”

Regina casts Robin a furtive glance, and when he answers her unspoken question with a nod, she turns her attention to Roland. “Do you think you can get rid of the Evil Queen so easily? I’ve got my eye on you now.”

“Evil Queen?” Will asks when he and the others join them. He gives Regina an assessing look. “Yeah, alright. I can see it.” He willfully ignores Robin’s glower.

“Yeah!” Roland exclaims, snapped out of his funk. “And she’s Snow White.” He points a sticky finger at Mary Margaret.

Mary Margaret clasps her chest in pretend shock. “Oh, my! You’ve found me out!”

It’s another ten minutes of this before they can manage their goodbyes. Regina produces a pack of hand wipes from her bag, cleans up Roland along with Henry, and Robin stamps down a rise of something far more complex and hazardous than simple gratitude. He braces himself for the parting hugs, keeps the one he gives her as companionable and short as the embraces he shares with the others.

Just a little longer. He can manage another month, perhaps two.

On the train ride to Phillip and Aurora’s, Roland falls asleep, head resting in the crook of Robin’s neck. Robin fondly recalls similar moments with another young boy ages ago, but the sweet memories are laced with vinegar. He can’t have this again. He can’t _want_ this.

The speakers come to life with a burst of static and a muffled voice announces the next stop.

Will stands up, straightening his trousers. He’s been uncharacteristically silent since leaving the park. “Right. That’s me.” His gaze darts from Roland to Robin, and he sighs, shaking his head. “Watch yourself, mate.” 

He’s out the doors without another word, leaving Robin to mull over an increasingly uncomfortable truth. If he’s not careful, he’ll not only break Roland’s heart, but his own too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** This is all she wrote. There will be no further updates. I salute the brave souls who read anyway!


End file.
